Phantom limbs

Those who make live in squalor
I’ve seem that that is the way of things
Dirtied by the day
And soiled by labor
They toil through night
Because it is most often their seed,
From their heads, from within their hands,
That they want to realize into this world
But sometimes they are but the limbs that build,
But limbs stay present
Whereas when what was made is being presented they are gone
And never seen
Like they were but phantom limbs
But those who used them feel no pain